


Ten Minutes

by Rose Emily (toomuchplor)



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angst, M/M, PWP, episode-related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-02
Updated: 2004-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 05:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/352765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/Rose%20Emily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*Teeeeeeeny* spoiler for 'Gone', but honestly. I don't think you'd even *recognize* it as a spoiler. Still, extreme spoiler-phobes beware.<br/>This was supposed to be porn for freakily_sticky.  Ooops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Minutes

He doesn't take marathon showers, not really. It's just that showering takes a lot longer than it used to. It's not Clark's fault. 

Three years ago, showering was a ten-minute process. 

No, really. 

Clark got a stopwatch for his birthday in the eighth grade, and back then, when he was kind of -- well. He supposes the term is 'innocent', but really, it feels more like 'geeky'. Anyway, he went through a phase where he timed everything. And the shower process, back in 2001, lasted precisely ten minutes. That was including shampoo, soap, and the other things that a ninth-grader needed to accomplish on a daily basis. 

Things got tougher as the months went by. Showers began to include careful explorations of the week's non-wounds -- delicate tracing of bullet bruises, the memorization of where a burn should be, the shocking indifference of his skin, of his body, its obtinacy when it came to recording events. And somehow, in the steam and the closeness of the shower, Clark couldn't help remembering things that had happened, dead people he'd seen, people he'd nearly let die, the way he'd lied to cover his tracks. He spent minutes at a time, cupping the soap in one hand and letting his brain empty itself of everything it couldn't stop replaying. 

Then Clark started getting all this hair on his chest, so he gradually added a quick once-over with his mom's razor. The first time he did it, he couldn't say why, except maybe out of curiosity, maybe to see if the razor could cut him. But after a while, he could admit it to himself: he liked the feel of the smooth skin on his chest. He liked running his palms, the tips of his fingers, over the bare muscled flesh, liked the silky glide, the slippery tease. 

But it wasn't until the fall of sophomore year that Clark could admit that there was another reason -- it made him think of Lex. 

After that, showering got even more complicated. 

Jerking off to thoughts of Lana was matter-of-fact, simple, straightforward. Sometimes it was almost boring, honestly. He would have her mentally undressed, splayed on his bed, panting for more, and by then he'd cut directly to the instant he came inside her, just to get things over with, to keep his showers inside the ten-minute mark. 

With Lex, Clark has to take his time. Lex, even fantasy Lex, isn't easy to undress. Clark learned to go slow, because Lex was a potent thought in and of himself. The first time Clark got so far as unbuttoning Lex's dress shirt in the shower, it took the full ten minutes, and Clark came before the last button was freed. 

Even after two years' practice, Clark can't rush through this part of his morning ritual. He's long since lost any sense of wonder when it comes to his kevlar-skin, he's forgotten how to be shocked at the sight of a dead person, or an almost-dead person, but this -- this first instant of touch, when his soapy hand initially glides down over his cock -- this moment can't be forced. Evoking Lex with that first touch has to be done in just the right way, the way that suits them, the way they are at that moment. It has to happen right, so that it's almost real. 

It might be a teasing, playful swipe, accompanied by one of those toothy grins that Lex has so rarely bestowed. Or it might be a slow, seductive breath of a touch, with blue eyes locked in on Clark's face like every meaningful conversation they've ever had. Or it might be frantic, fearful, a nervous passionate frenzy, as though they are about to be overcome by the malicious fate that's haunted their friendship since Lex knocked Clark off that bridge. 

Since Clark came back, since he found that room of Lex's, the touch is always angry, rough, accusatory. Lex is always clenching his jaw as he reaches for Clark, his movements showing his disgust, his disdain. Lex is cruel and indifferent and because of the lines that bracket his once-kissable mouth, it now takes Clark far longer than ten minutes to come. In fact, these days, he gives up on climax more often than not, abandoning his erection with frustration after twenty minutes' hard work, pretending to himself that he doesn't care if Lex never makes him come again. 

But he still reaches for his mom's razor. 

There's a comfort in that smooth expanse of skin. There's hope that maybe, someday, showers might be only ten minutes long again. 


End file.
